Sometimes if I don’t have stories of my own, I’ll tell other people’s stories. Here’s a Claude story.
Claude’s mother baked and decorated cakes. In fact, a few months ago we went to Claude and Kendra’s house and Darling Husband opened their freezer and said, “Yo. What’s a giant mushroom doing in your freezer?”
Kendra said, “See! I told you, Claude. It looks like a giant mushroom.”
I went to look. “Oh wow. Claude. What’s a giant mushroom doing in your freezer?” I snapped a picture of it.
Claude said, “It’s going to look like a big cupcake when I’m done decorating it.” We cringed at each other behind Claude’s back and tried to dissuade him. “Why don’t you just stick some red dots on it and call it a mushroom?”
But Claude wouldn’t listen to us. Instead, he worked late into the night, decorating his mushroom cupcake. And when he was done, lo and behold! It looked just like a giant cupcake!
I tried to find a picture of it on Claude or Kendra’s Facebook page to steal it, but I couldn’t find it. I found this one instead, so you can see that I’m not exaggerating his skill.
This is the cake he made for his twin sons’ birthday.
You needed to know Claude’s cake decorating talent for the story to make sense. Here is Claude’s story, told only slightly differently to you from the way he told it to us:
Claude was the best man at a wedding. (Darling Husband interrupted to say, “If you do say so yourself.”) When the cake people arrived, out came the wedding cake. Ah! The wedding cake. Glowy, yummy, gorgeous wedding cake.
But then! The wedding cake people did the unthinkable! The one thing that a wedding cake maker is never, ever allowed to do! The one thing that happens in every single sit com from the 1970s with a wedding scene: they dropped the wedding cake!
Oh, the uproar that ensued. The bride wept inconsolably. Her father berated the cake people and demanded a refund (I made that part up. For all I know he was very gracious about it.) Some other guy, who I was never clear what his role was, ran around exclaiming “What’ll we do!? What’ll we do!?” I don’t remember his name, so we’ll call him George. (Because I’m thinking of this abominable snowman Looney Tune cartoon right now.)
Claude was in his best man clothes and didn’t have his car keys, so he said, “George. Your car. Let’s go.” George was still in panic mode. Obviously George never worked with vats of neon green nuclear goo on battleships like Claude has. Once you’ve worked with vats of neon green nuclear goo on a battleship, a smooshed wedding cake is small potatoes.
George stumbled around, but managed to produce his car keys and they got in and started driving. “Where are we going, Claude? Oh, what’ll we do??!”
Claude said, “We’re going to Publix.”
Publix is a grocery store in the southern states. We don’t have one around here. Claude explained that each pastry chef at Publix is hand chosen for his or her superior baking skills. Apparently four out of every five wedding cakes in the south are made in Publix. (I made that statistic up.)
Claude and George, in their tuxedos, arrived at Publix with George still clutching at his head in misery, thinking of the pitiful pile of crumbs and icing that was the wedding cake. They approached the bakery counter and George blurted out, “We need a wedding cake! Today! Right now!”
The poor befuddled woman behind the counter spluttered in shock and amazement, “But! But! We can’t make a wedding cake…right now! It’s impossible, man! Are you crazy?”
But Claude, calm as can be, slowly stepped to the forefront. “Ma’am. We need that cake (he pointed at a sheet cake), that cake, (pointed to another one), aaaaand…that one (pointed to a third.)” Each of the cakes was beautifully and painstakingly decorated. She collected the cakes and Claude then instructed, “Now scrape off all the icing.”
“Scrape off all the icing?!” said George.
“Scrape off all the icing?!” said Bakery Woman.
“Scrape off all the icing. And here’s what you’re going to do…”
And under Claude’s tutelage, gleaned from many years of sitting at his mother’s cake-decorating knee, Bakery Woman arranged the layers of cake into a three layer wedding cake and proceeded to decorate the impromptu wedding cake, following Claude’s instructions to the letter.
The cake was stunning: a masterpiece. And, here’s the best part, they were in and out in under 10 minutes.
When they arrived back at the wedding, how the cries of dismay turned into cries of amazement and delight!
The groom, with tears in his eyes, clapped Claude on the back and choked out, “Claude! You really are the best man!” (I totally made up that last line, but wouldn’t that have been a great ending to the story?)
Picture of the day.
Went shoe shopping. I hate shoe shopping. I never can buy the shoes I actually want. For instance,
I really wanted these pirate buccaneer boots. But where will I ever wear pirate buccaneer boots? Actually, don’t get me started. Y’all do remember that I have a pirate costume for when I go to the Ren Fest on pirate day, don’t you? Is it worth all the money just to wear the boots one day a year??
No. Since I can’t wear my pirate costume around town, I didn’t get the buccaneer boots.
So, I tried on the cowboy boots instead. I might be able to pull this look off if I wear a plaid shirt or something. But I don’t particularly like cows and I don’t like country music (sorry, Cousin Tom.) Oh, I tried to like country music. I listened to it for a solid 4 months, and I even cried a little tear over that song about Riding with Private Andrew Malone. I loved that song. Soooo cheesy, but I loved it. I think I loved it because it was so cheesy.
But, in the end, country music never really stuck in my soul. That’s because God put rock and roll in the soul of everyone. Not country. (One of my favorite songs. I need someone to sing it with me as a duet. Any takers? Michi?)
How about girly heels? Yikes! Do you see how my other foot is like 10 inches off the floor? It’s really hard to walk in one heel and one not-heel. Each step was like stepping up and over a log. But I managed to get to the mirror with my rolling gait and snap a shot. By the time I got back to the little seat and collapsed, my poor heeled foot was weeping from pain (see all my foot veins sticking out? Oh, gross!) Heels hurt. I only buy ones that don’t kill my feet. These hurt. They were a no-go.
And then there were these boots. Oh, I love these! But I really should have worn them back in the early 90’s when grunge was popular and I was young enough to pull it off. I think an almost-40 year old homeschooling mom of two sporting a green mini-van sorta can’t pull this look off. Wait! I can just tell people that I homeschool for crunchy, political reasons! There’s a whole sub-culture of crunchy homeschoolers. I could join their ranks. Yes. That’s something to consider.
Ok—Darling Husband and I have a date with Doctor Who. See you tomorrow!